THE 

PIONEER 

TRAIL 


LAM  BOURNE 


BANCROFT    LIBRARY 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 


THE 
PIONEER  TRAIL 


BY 


ALFRED  LAMBOURNE 


THE  DESERET  NEWS 

Salt  Lake  City 

1913 


~533 


Copyright,  1913, 
By  ALFRED  LAMBOURNE 


rolt  Library 


Dedicated  to  the  Memory  of 
MY  FATHER. 


PREFACE. 

"An  Old  Sketch-Book"  and  "The  Old  Jour- 
ney," the  predecessors  of  "The  Pioneer  Trail," 
are  now  out  of  print,  and  the  volume  here  offered 
to  the  public  in  their  stead  is  to  fill  a  demand  for 
the  original  works.  In  the  present  book  there 
is  much  additional  matter  to  the  letterpress  of 
the  first  editions  and,  indeed,  the  character  of 
the  work  is  somewhat  changed,  the  work  being 
more  an  epitome  of  human  emotion  rather  than 
one  descriptive  of  scenery.  These  statements, 
however,  have  rather  too  important  a  sound  as 
applied  to  such  a  short  narrative  as  makes  up 
these  pages.  Since  the  issue  of  "The  Old  Jour- 
ney," the  sketches  from  which  it  was  illustrated 
have  been  scattered  here  and  there,  and  the 
vignettes  from  the  original  plates  are  given  in 
their  place.  An  explanation  seems  necessary  to 


8  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

those  who  may  purchase  the  book  in  its  new 
form  in  anticipation  of  its  being  a  duplicate  of  the 
former  works. 

I  lie  at  the  side  of  a  mountain  road.  The  moun- 
tain is  steep,  the  road  is  edged  with  trees.  There 
are  the  wild-cherry,  evergreens,  and  clumps  of 
ancient  shrub-oak.  The  road  is  now  unused ;  few 
pass  over  it,  save  it  be  the  shepherds  who  take 
their  flocks  from  the  high  pastures  of  one  moun- 
tain range  to  those  of  another.  What  once  had 
been  ruts  made  by  the  wheels  of  wagons  are  now 
changed  by  rain  and  flood  into  deep-cut  gullies. 
It  is  a  place  where,  in  the  spring  time,  the  air  is 
fragrant  from  millions  of  snow-white  blossoms, 
and  where  now  on  the  branches  of  the  cherry, 
hang  clusters  of  crimson  fruit.  The  piece  of 
road  is  historic.  At  this,  its  steepest  part,  near 
"The  Summit,"  and  where  it  is  crossed  by  ledges 
of  stone  and  littered  with  boulders  and  shale 
that  once  tore  the  iron  from  the  cattle's  feet,  I 
found  an  ox-shoe.  The  relic  had  lain  here  long. 
Down  this  road  passed  the  Pioneers. 

There  is  stillness  around.      Over  "The  Little 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  ,9 

Mountain"  arches  a  cloudless  sky,  the  wide  land- 
scape is  bathed  in  sunlight.  But  this  place,  now 
so  quiet  and  deserted,  may  yet  become  the  scene 
of  animation.  The  broken  road  is  to  be  a  high- 
way, preserved  as  a  piece  of  "The  Pioneer 
Trail." 

THE  AUTHOR. 


FROM  PREFACE  TO  PIONEER  JUBILEE 
EDITION. 

Some  years  ago  the  author  of  this  book  was 
enabled  to  gratify  an  ambition  to  record  in 
artistic  form  something  of  the  scenes  and  some- 
thing of  the  incidents  of  the  memorable  pilgrim- 
age,The  Westward  March,  from  the  once  bor- 
ders of  civilization  to  the  Great  American  Des- 
ert—"An  Old  Sketch  Book,"  Boston.  S.  E. 
Cassino,  1892.  His  purpose  was  not  to  publish 
a  guide-book  to  the  plains  and  mountains,  for 
which  there  has  been  no  occasion  within  the 
present  generation,  but  rather  a  summary,  a 
poetic-prose  narrative  of  a  typical  journey,  as 
seen  through  the  memory  and  devoid  of  com- 
monplaces, the  more  salient  features  only  loom- 
ing through  the  past. 

When  the  Jubilee  Celebration  of  the  strange 


12  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

journey — for  it  is  that,  and  those  who  made  it 
that  we  are  this  year  honoring  and  commem- 
orating— was  decided  upon,  it  was  suggested  in 
consideration  of  the  singular  fitness  of  "An  Old 
Sketch-Book"  as  a  souvenir  to  be  presented  dur- 
ing the  Jubilee  to  the  Pioneers  yet  living,  that 
letters  were  addressed  to  the  Pioneer  Jubilee 
Celebration  Commission  that  speak  for  them- 
selves. Many  of  the  names  appended  to  the  let- 
ters were  recognized  as  belonging  to  the  honored 
band  of  Pioneer  men  and  women,  while  the 
others  were  of  those  who  think  that  in  this  Ju- 
bilee Year  those  who  crossed  the  plains  and 
mountains  in  ox-teams  would  appreciate  the 
receiving,  and  their  descendants  the  giving  of 
a  work  of  this  character. 

"An  Old  Sketch-Book,"  however,  was  a  large 
and  costly  volume  of  a  limited  edition,  and 
hardly  manageable  for  the  present  purpose.  The 
author  therefore  decided  to  place  the  sketches 
and  descriptive  matter  in  the  form  now  used, 
under  the  title  of  "The  Old  Journey."  The 
prompting  to  undertake  the  work  was  not  merely 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  13 

encouraging  but  was  made  almost  a  duty  by  the 
commendations  of  the  original  volume,  and  had 
there  been  no  other  result  from  his  labors,  the 
author  would  have  felt  fully  repaid  for  them  by 
the  expressions  of  approbation  from  the  press 
as  well  as  from  those  who  saw  the  birth  of  the 
State  and  who  watched  its  growth  to  the  present 
hour. 

The  author  is  one  of  those  who  "crossed  the 
plains."  As  the  years  have  gone  and  time  has 
not  only  cast  a  sort  of  glamor  over  the  event, 
but  has  given  also  to  men  an  opportunity  to  re- 
flect seriously  and  in  calmness  and  intelligence, 
that  same  Journey  assumes  greatness  in  our  eyes, 
both  in  its  inception  and  in  its  achievement.  It 
finds  a  prominent  place  in  the  History  of  the 
West,  and  will  ever  stand  forth  among  events. 
Indeed  the  world  had  heretofore  seen  nothing 
like  it,  and  in  the  very  nature  of  things  its  rep- 
etition is  improbable,  if  not  impossible.  It  must 
now  be  read;  it  cannot  be  experienced. 

In  presenting  this  edition  there  are  no  excuses 
to  offer.  The  author  has  been  true  to  nature  and 


14  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

to  history,  and  the  publishers  have  done  their 
part  in  a  manner  that  must  excite  wonder  and 
commendation  when  one  thinks  of  what  has 
been  achieved  in  the  wilderness,  the  advance  that 
has  been  made  in  the  art  of  the  printer  within 
the  few  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the 
sketches  appearing  in  the  book  were  made. 

It  hardly  needs  intuition  to  foretell  success  for 
this  little  volume. 

BYRON  GROO. 

May,  1897. 


"Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where 

the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and 

luminous  summits. 
Where  the  gorge,  like  a  gate  way, 
Opens  a  passage  wide  to  the  wheels  of  the  emi- 
grant's wagon." 


PLATES. 

The  Start  from  Missouri  River. 

Nebraska  Landscape  with  Prairie  Fire. 

Morning  at  Chimney  Rock. 

Camp  at  Scott's  Bluffs. 

Laramie  Peak  from  the  Black  Hills. 

Ford  of  the  Green  River. 

First  Glimpse  of  the  Valley. 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  D.  HOLLADAY. 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 


HIS  day,  within  the  hour,  I  took  from 
its  place  of  concealment  "An  Old 
Sketch-Book."  It  lies  before  me 
now,  I  turn  its  leaves  and  live  once  more  a  past 
experience.  Well,  well!  How  vividly  this  book 
brings  to  me  again  those  stirring  days!  Why, 
these  are  days  gone  by  this  quarter,  yes,  nearer 
this  half  century!  How  unexpectedly  we  some- 
times come  upon  the  past — turn  it  up,  as  it  were, 
from  the  mold  of  time  as  with  the  plow  one 
might  bring  to  light  from  out  the  earth  some  lost 
and  forgotten  thing.  This  book,  with  its  buck- 
skin covers,  revivifies  dead  hours,  makes  me  live 
again  those  times  when  life  for  me  was  new ;  or, 
if  not  exactly  that,  brings  them  back  in  memory 


20  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

as  reminders  of  times  and  conditions  now  passed 
away  forever. 

The  book  is  a  reminder,  old,  battered,  dusty, 
yet  truthful,  of  what  an  ox-team  journey  across 
the  western  plains  and  over  the  Rockies  was  in 
the  years  that  are  gone. 

The  book  so  long  neglected,  now  so  full  of  in- 
terest, received  hard  usage  in  those  former  days. 
Before  it  lay  at  rest  so  long,  gathering  dust  and 
cobwebs  about  it,  like  a  true  pioneer  it  was  made 
to  rough  it  in  this  world.  It  learned  to  with- 
stand the  brunt  of  many  a  hard  encounter.  Mas- 
ter and  book  were  companions  on  a  long  and  toil- 
some journey. 

Inside  and  out;  yes,  the  leaves  and  the  covers 
all  tell  tales.  This  buckskin  was  drenched  many 
a  time  by  the  thunder-storms  of  Nebraska  and 
Wyoming;  by  the  sleet  and  snow  that  fell  upon 
the  mountains.  Between  these  sheets  of  vari- 
ously- toned  gray  paper,  close  to  the  binding,  are 
little  waves  of  red,  gritty  stuff,  contributions,  on 
some  windy  day,  from  the  sand  hills  of  the  Platte 
Valley,  or  the  Big  Sandy  Creek  (the  poetic  Glis- 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  21 

tening  Gravel  Water  of  the  Indians),  or  from 
"The  Three  Crossings"  of  the  Sweetwater,  or  the 
wearisome  piece  of  road  leading  from  Platte  to 
Platte — North  and  South — over  the  ridge  and 
down  into  Ash  Hollow.  One  end  of  the  book 
has  been  submerged  in  water,  a  reminiscence,  no 
doubt,  of  the  fording  of  either  the  Platte,  the 
Sweetwater,  the  Big  or  Little  Laramie  or  the 
Green  River  farther  on.  O,  there  are  many  emo- 
tions revived  within  me  by  a  sight  of  the  book; 
they  crowd  upon  me  thick  and  fast !  These  crisp, 
gray  leaves  of  sage,  where  did  they  get  between 
the  leaves?  It  was,  I  believe,  on  one  cool  Sep- 
tember night,  at  Quaking  Asp  Hollow.  I  re- 
member that  then  great  bonfires  were  blazing 
around  our  camp,  and  the  red  tongues  of  flames 
showed  by  their  light,  wild  groups  of  dancers — 
the  ox-punchers  performing  strange  antics;  a 
fantastic  dancing  supposed  to  be  under  the  pa- 
tronage of  Terpsichore;  or,  at  least,  some  more 
western  muse;  a  something,  as  I  recall  it  now, 
between  that  of  our  modern  ball-room  and  the 
Apache  Ghost-Dance. 


22  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

Remarkable  that  those  sketches  can  suggest 
to  me  so  much!  Yet  it  is  that  which  is  unseen 
that  fills  me  with  amaze.  Turning  over  the  leaves 
it  all  comes  back.  "The  Journey"  is  no  longer  a 
dream ;  it  becomes  again  a  reality ;  I  go  over  the 
long,  long  plodding,  the  slow  progress  of  seem- 
ingly endless  days.  Not  only  do  I  look  upon  the 
scenes  which  were  transferred  to  the  book,  but, 
through  sympathy,  on  others  also  that,  for  want 
of  time,  were  left  unsketched.  Incidents  of  many 
kinds  thrust  their  memories  upon  me.  Some- 
times the  experiences  recalled  were  pleasurable; 
sometimes  they  were  sad.  But  mirthful  or 
tragic,  pathetic  or  terrible,  I  go  over  them  again, 
and  the  twelve  hundred  miles,  nay,  the  fifteen 
hundred,  considering  the  circuitous  route  that  we 
were  compelled  to  follow,  pass  before  me  like  a 
moving  panorama.  Prairies,  hills,  streams, 
mountains,  canons,  follow  each  other  in  quick 
succession — all  the  ever-changing  prospect  be- 
tween the  banks  of  the  Missouri  River  and  the 
Inland  Sea. 

How  rapidly  we  have  grown !     What  was  once 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  23 

but  dreams  of  the  future  first  changed  to  reality, 
and  then  sank  away  until  now  they  are  but 
dreams  of  the  past.  No  more  the  long  train  of 
dust-covered  wagons,  drawn  by  the  slow  and 
patient  oxen,  winds  across  the  level  plains  or 
passes  through  the  deep  defile.  No  more  the 
Pony  Express  or  the  lumbering  stage-coach  bring 
the  quickest-word  or  forms  the  fastest  transport 
between  the  inter-mountain  region  and  "The 
States."  How  hard  it  is  to  understand  the  brief- 
ness of  time  that  has  passed  since  this  great  in- 
terior country  was  practically  a  howling  wilder- 
ness, inhabited  by  bands  of  savage  Indians  and 
penetrated  only  by  intrepid  trappers  or  hunters ! 
As  we  are  now  whirled  along  over  the  Laramie 
Plains,  the  Humboldt  Desert,  or  through  the 
Echo  or  Weber  Canons,  reclining  on  luxuriously 
cushioned  seats,  and  but  a  few  hours  away  from 
the  Atlantic  or  Pacific  seaboards,  we  can  scarcely 
realize  it.  Surely  the  locomotive  plays  a  won- 
drous part  in  the  destiny  of  modern  nations. 
Without  its  aid  the  country  through  which  we 
are  about  to  pass  might  have  become  as  was  sur- 


24  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

mised  by  Irving,  the  cradle  of  a  race  inimical  to 
the  higher  civilization  to  the  East  and  West. 
Now  we  behold  it  a  land  giving  promise  of  future 
greatness,  where  peace,  wealth  and  happiness 
shall  go  hand  in  hand,  and  where  already  it  is 
well-nigh  impossible  for  the  youth  of  today  to 
fully  comprehend  the  struggles  and  privations  of 
its  pioneer  fathers. 

The  sketches,  the  greater  number,  are  roughly 
made.  There  was  little  time  to  loiter  by  the 
wayside.  Some  of  them  are  hardly  more  than 
hasty  outlines,  filled  in,  perhaps,  when  the  camp- 
ing-ground was  reached.  Some  show  an  impres- 
sion dashed  off  of  a  morning  or  evening,  or, 
sometimes,  of  a  noonday.  Once  in  a  while  there 
is  a  subject  more  carefully  finished,  telling  of  an- 
early  camp  or  of  a  half-day's  rest.  Some  are  in 
white  and  black  merely,  others  in  color. 

What  a  new  delight  it  was  to  one  young  and 
city-bred,  to  mingle  in  the  freedom  of  camp  life 
such  as  we  enjoyed  near  that  spot.  How  sweet 
it  was  to  pass  the  days  and  nights  under  the  blue 
canopy  of  heaven!  Three  weeks  we  remained 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  25 

there;  three  weeks  elapsed  ere  our  train  was 
ready  to  start.  There  was  nothing  very  beauti- 
ful, it  may  be,  in  the  scenery  bordering  upon 
"The  Mad  Waters,"  but  it  was  wild  and  sylvan 
at  the  time,  and  we  were  excited  by  the  prospect 
of  those  months  of  travel  that  lay  before  us. 

Between  the  high  bank  on  which  our  wagons 
stood  and  the  main  course  where  the  Missouri's 
waters  flowed,  was  "The  Slough."  There,  under 
the  high  branches  of  primeval  trees,  the  river 
back-waters  lay  clear  and  still;  there  the  wild 
grape  vine  ran  riot ;  there  hung  the  green  clusters 
of  berries  that  would  swell  as  we  journeyed  on, 
and  that  would  be  ripe  ere  we  reached  our  jour- 
ney's end.  There  the  young,  and  the  old,  too, 
resorted  for  their  bath.  Many  the  fair  girl  who 
made  her  toilet  there,  often,  indeed,  that  some 
bright  face  was  reflected  in  a  silent  pool,  a  na- 
ture's mirror,  while  its  owner  arranged  anew  her 
disheveled  hair.  The  daughters  of  dusky  sav- 
ages, of  painted  chiefs — the  Tappas,  the  Pawnee 
or  the  Omaha — had,  no  doubt,  used  that  place  for 
the  same  purpose  in  other  years.  Little  thought 


26  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

they  of  the  white-faced  maidens  from  distant 
lands  beyond  the  great  seas,  perhaps  of  which 
they  never  heard,  who  should  some  day  usurp 
their  place. 

During  our  days  of  waiting  ere  we  had  started 
westward,  often,  indeed,  our  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  sunset  horizon.  From  there  would 
come  the  train  of  wagons  in  which  the  greater 
number  of  emigrants  would  make  "the  journey." 
Often  there  was  a  false  alarm.  Each  waiting 
emigrant,  impatient  of  delay,  would  take  some 
far-off  cloud  of  dust  to  be  that  made  by  the  ex- 
pected wagons.  But  often  it  was  only  bands  of 
frontiersmen,  Indians,  or  perhaps  a  band  of  an- 
telope. Would  the  train  never  come?  How 
long  this  wait !  At  length,  well  I  remember  the 
morning,  the  word  was  passed!  It  was  the 
wagons  for  the  emigrants.  The  half-cooked 
breakfast  and  the  campfires  were  left  deserted. 
Each  and  every  one  went  forward  to  see  the 
wagons  that  for  so  many  weeks  would  be  their 
homes.  Some  there  were  who  had  lover  or  rela- 
tive who  had  preceded  them  the  years  before  and 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  27 

now  their  lover  or  relative  returned  for  those 
whom  they  loved.  All  dust-covered  and  torn 
were  the  teamsters'  clothes.  Some  were  bare- 
headed. Yes,  they  had  raced  on  the  road.  Two 
captains,  our  own,  John  D.  Holladay,  and  another 
equally  eager,  had  made  a  wager.  Each  one 
was  positive  that  he  would  reach  the  banks  of  the 
Missouri  first.  In  order  to  gain  the  wager  our 
captain  had  aroused  his  men  at  the  hour  of  mid- 
night, and  in  the  darkness  had  forded  the  deep 
Elkhorn  River,  and  continued  the  journey  east- 
ward while  the  members  of  the  other  company 
were  enjoying  their  needed  rest. 

A  daring  deed!  But  those  pioneers  of  the 
west  knew  no  fear.  They  were  in  earnest,  too. 
Captain  and  teamsters  alike  shared  both  the  joy 
and  the  pride  in  the  winning  of  the  wager. 

Then  on  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  the 
other  train  arrived.  O  what  a  shouting  and  yell- 
ing then  rent  the  air.  Yet  the  rival  captain  and 
his  teamsters  took  their  defeat  good  naturedly. 
They  had  started  eastward  better  equipped  than 
was  our  captain,  and  yet  the  latter  had  won  the 


28  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

race.     Of  this  achievement  of  course  we  were 
proud. 

A  supper  and  a  ball  were  given  by  the  losing 
company.  And  what  a  ball-room  —  the  Wyo- 
ming Hotel.  It  was  a  long,  low  house  of  logs 
and  the  dance-room  was  lighted  by  a  row  of 
tallow  candles,  and  the  music  was  furnished  by 
the  teamsters  from  the  west,  and  yet  what  a  time 
of  enjoyment  it  was!  What  a  contrast  between 
the  refined  young  girls  from  across  the  seas,  and 
those  roughly  clad  men  from  the  west.  Yet  in  the 
future  their  lives  were  to  be  linked  in  one  and 
their  children  in  turn  be  builders  of  the  western 
empire. 

Well  do  I  remember,  the  afternoon,  when  our 
captain,  that  was  to  be,  came  to  our  portion  of 
the  Wyoming  camp  and  listed  those  who  were 
to  journey  as  Independents,  of  which  my  father 
was  one.  That  was  the  first  time  that  I  had 
beheld  a  typical  captain  of  the  western  plains. 
And  still  I  remember  his  massive  form,  his  keen 
eye,  his  commanding  voice  and  gestures.  But 
his  true  southern  accent  plainly  told  that  he  had 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  29 

not  long  lived  in  the  west,  but  was  from  the  land 
of  the  sunny  south. 

There  should  be  a  sketch  of  "The  Slough,"  I 
remember  such  was  made.  Indeed,  it  should  be 
the  first  in  the  book.  But  careless  hands  have 
torn  it  away.  The  first  is  one  looking  eastward 
over  the  river  toward  the  Council  Bluffs.  For 
eastward  lay  the  Missouri  River.  We  saw  the 
steamer  Welcome,  which  had  brought  us  up 
stream,  the  Red  Wing,  and  other  olden  time 
boats  passing  occasionally  up  or  down  the  stream. 
But  westward  the  level  horizon  attracted  our 
eyes  and  made  us  long  for  the  time  when  we 
should  start  to  follow  the  setting  sun. 

Persistently,  and  with  eager  curiosity,  the 
guide-book  was  scanned.  For  weeks  ahead  we 
studied  the  meagre  information  of  "The  Route." 
We  learned  the  names,  suggestively  odd  or 
quaintly  poetic,  and  we  pictured  in  the  mind  the 
places  themselves  to  which  they  belonged.  We 
formed  conclusions  to  be  realized  later  on  or  to 
be  dispelled  by  the  actualities.  The  imagination, 
heated  to  the  utmost  by  traveler's  tales — half 


30  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

true,  half  false — looked  forward  to  a  region  of 
wonder  and  romance.  Already  I  had  met  that 
"boss  of  the  frontier,"  the  western  tough,  who 
had  kindly  offered  with  the  help  of  his  bowie- 
knife,  to  slit  or  cut  off  my  youthful  ears.  I  had 
looked  upon  the  frontier  log-cabin,  half  store,  half 
bar,  decorated  with  the  skins  of  the  beaver  and 
the  wolf,  and  seen  the  selling  by  the  moccasined 
fur-traders  of  buffalo  robes.  Before  us  was  the 
land  of  Kit  Carson,  we  should  pass  through  the 
domains  of  the  Cheyenne,  the  Sioux,  the  Crow 
and  the  Ute.  We  would  see  the  Bad  Lands ;  the 
burial  trees  of  the  Arapahoe;  the  lands  of  the 
Medicine  and  the  Scalp-Dance.  In  our  path 
were  the  villages  of  the  Prairie  Dog,  the  home  of 
the  Coyote  and  the  rattlesnake;  of  the  antelope, 
of  the  buffalo,  the  big-horn  and  the  grizzly  bear. 
Prairie  Creek,  Loup  Fork,  Fort  John,  South  Pass, 
Wind  River  Mountains — O  many  a  name  seized 
upon  imagination  and  held  it  fast. 

And  the  names  of  Chiefs — Mad  Wolf,  Spotted 
Eagle,  Two  Axe,  Rain-in-the-Face — they  were 
as  from  some  unwritten  western  Iliad. 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  31 

But  I  return  to  the  sketch-book.  Indeed  it 
has  made  imagination  wander. 

The  second  sketch  in  the  book  is  a  view  near 
the  Missouri  River.  It  is  looking  westward  and 
shows  a  Nebraska  landscape  with  a  prairie  fire. 
The  scene  is,  indeed,  a  very  different  one  from 
what  the  place  would  present  today.  A  great 
prairie  fire  is  sweeping  across  the  plain  and  the 
dense  whirling  mass  of  smoke,  driven  before  the 
wind,  and  the  principal  feature  of  the  sketch, 
overshadows  with  its  darkness  a  far-reaching 
landscape  of  low,  rolling  hills,  clumps  of  trees  and 
a  winding  stream,  in  which,  however,  there  is  not 
a  sign  of  human  life  visible.  The  stream  is  a 
small  one,  probably  the  Blue  Creek,  or  it  may  be 
the  Vermilion,  or,  perhaps,  the  Shell.  Which 
one  of  these  I  have  really  forgotten.  And  the 
margin,  too,  is  unmarked.  Now  that  region  is 
covered  with  villages  and  farms  and  the  smoke  is 
from  the  chimneys  of  homes  where  prosperity 
and  modern  comforts  are  to  be  found.  The 
sketch  shows  a  wilderness,  so  great  is  the  change 
wrought  since  that  day  it  was  made. 


32  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

"The  O'Fallen's  Bluffs."  The  third  sketch  is 
a  hasty  one.  The  sky  and  the  river — the  slow- 
flowing  Platte,  are  responsive  to  the  light  of  a 
golden  sunset.  The  brilliant  rays  come  from  be- 
hind the  huge,  square,  sedimentary  cliffs,  and 
which  throw  a  shadow  across  the  foreground. 
The  main  interest  in  the  scene,  however,  is  not 
that  given  by  nature,  but  in  the  presence  of  man. 
It  shows  our  long  train  of  wagons — how  slightly 
sketched — coming  down  from  the  bluffs,  and 
winding  toward  the  radiance  along  the  dusty 
road. 

And  so — we  had  made  a  start!  We  had  un- 
raveled, a  few  at  least,  of  the  mysteries  attendant 
upon  the  management  of  cattle;  we  could  yoke 
and  unyoke;  we  knew  the  effects  of  "gee"  and 
"haw,"  and  could  then  throw  four  yards  of  black- 
snake  whip  with  a  skill  and  force  that  made  its 
buckskin  "cracker"  explode  with  a  noise  like  the 
report  of  a  pistol.  We  knew,  with  tolerable  ac- 
curacy, the  moment  when  to  apply,  to  let  off  the 
brake,  the  degree  of  modulation  in  the  voice  that 
would  enable  the  intelligent  oxen  to  understand 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  33 

just  how  much  to  swerve  to  the  right  or  the  left. 
We  were  fast  becoming  teamsters,  "bull-whack- 
ers;" theory  had  given  place  to  practical  knowl- 
edge, and,  moreover,  we  were  not  only  becoming 
experts  upon  the  road,  but  also  in  those  many 
bits  of  untellable  knowledge  needed  to  make 
bearable  the  discomforts  of  camp-life. 

Dearly  we  learned  to  love  the  Platte !  Dearly 
we  learned  to  love  the  wide  and  shallow  stream. 
Even  if  the  way  was  dreary  at  times,  we  forgot  it 
when  passing  along  the  river  banks.  "Egypt,  O 
Commander  of  the  Faithful,  is  a  compound  of 
black  "earth  and  green  plants,  between  a  pulver- 
ized mountain  and  a  red  sand."  So  wrote  Am- 
ron,  Conqueror  of  Egypt,  to  his  master,  the 
Khalif  Omar.  And  so  might  then  have  been 
said  of  the  Valley  of  the  Platte.  Day  after  day 
we  trudged  along,  and  day  after  day  the  red  hills 
of  sandstone  looked  down  upon  us,  or  the  prairie, 
like  the  desert,  stretched  out  its  illimitable  dis- 
tance. The  days  grew  into  weeks,  the  weeks 
became  a  month,  and  still  the  cattle,  freed  from 
the  yoke,  hastened  to  slake  their  thirst  at  the 


34  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

well-loved  stream.  During  that  month,  surely, 
we  ate,  each  one  of  us,  the  peck  of  dirt — if  sand 
may  be  classed  as  dirt — which  every  man  is  said 
to  eat  in  his  life  time.  It  filled  our  eyes,  too,  and 
our  ears,  our  nostrils.  It  was  in  the  food;  it 
sprinkled  the  pan-cakes;  it  was  in  the  syrup  that 
we  poured  over  them.  Half  suffocated  were  we 
by  it,  during  some  night-wind,  as  we  lay  beneath 
our  wagons.  O,  ye  sand  hills  of  the  Platte — in- 
deed we  have  cause  to  remember. 

To  the  Overland  traveller  of  today,  the  Platte 
is  almost  unknown.  But  from  the  time  we  first 
discovered  the  stream,  yellowed  by  the  close  of  a 
July  day,  and  overhung  by  ancient  cottonwood 
trees,  until  we  bade  it  farewell  at  Red  Rocks, 
within  view  of  Laramie  Peak,  it  seemed,  was,  in- 
deed, a  friend.  As  on  the  edge  of  the  Nile,  the 
verdure  on  its  banks  was  often  the  only  greenness 
in  all  the  landscape  round. 

"What  possible  enjoyment  is  there  in  the  long 
and  dreary  ride  over  the  yellow  plains,"  Rideing, 
in  his  "Scenery  of  the  Pacific  Railway,"  asks  that 
question.  "The  infinite  space  and  air  does  not 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  35 

redeem  the  dismal  prospect  of  dried-up  seas.  The 
pleasures  of  the  transcontinental  journey,"  he 
goes  on  to  say,  "may  be  divided  into  ten  parts, 
five  of  which  consist  of  anticipation,  one  of  reali- 
zation, and  four  of  retrospect."  With  us,  at  least, 
it  was  different.  From  the  railway  one  is  but  a 
beholder  of  the  scenery;  but  in  "The  Old  Jour- 
ney" we  were  partakers  therein.  We  became 
acquainted  with  the  individualities,  as  it  were,  of 
the  way.  And  then  how  we  crept  from  one  oasis 
of  verdure  to  another.  In  the  simple  scenic  com- 
bines, too,  of  the  river,  rock  and  trees,  what 
change!  But  the  railway  did  not  follow  our 
devious  course. 

One  there  was  in  our  company  who,  like  Phil 
Robinson,  of  travel  fame,  remembered  the  prin- 
cipal places  along  the  road  by  the  game  he  had 
shot  there.  Here  he  had  dropped  a  mallard  or  a 
red-head;  there,  upon  that  hillside  he  had  made 
havoc  among  a  covey  of  rock-partridge,  in  that 
grove  secured  the  wild  turkey,  or,  on  the  banks 
of  that  stream,  he  had  brought  down  a  deer,  and 
on  that  plain  had  ridden  down  a  buffalo.  A  good 


36  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

way  this,  no  doubt,  to  remember  the  leading 
features,  and  special  places  through  which  our 
journey  lay;  but,  unlike  my  fellow  traveller,  I 
recall  now  all  the  good  spots  for  bathing.  O, 
what  joy  it  was,  after  a  half,  or  full  day's  experi- 
ence of  dust  and  toil  to  plunge  into  the  cooling, 
cleansing  waters  of  spring  or  stream.  O,  the 
Platte!  But  I  must  not  omit  my  pleasure  in 
other  waters.  Now  I  see  the  waves  of  the  Elk- 
horn,  now  those  of  the  Big  and  the  Little  Lara- 
mie;  and,  now,  through  a  fringe  of  long-leaved 
arrow-wood,  the  cold,  deep  waters  of  Horse  Shoe 
Creek.  One  day  as  I  bathed,  Spotted  Tail,  the 
famous  Sioux  Chieftain,  and  his  band  of  five  hun- 
dred braves,  passed  along  the  banks  of  the  Platte. 
Open  mouth  I  stared  at  the  wild  cavalcade,  and 
while  wading  ashore,  I  struck  my  foot  against, 
as  it  proved  to  be  upon  examination,  a  great 
stone  battleaxe.  Perhaps  it  once  belonged,  at 
some  remote  period  of  time,  to  another  great 
chief  in  that  famed  and  haughty  warrior's  an- 
cestry. 

"A  Gathering  Storm" — the  unbroken  prairies! 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  37 

We  are  brought  by  this  subject  to  grand  phe- 
nomena. Heavens  what  piles  of  cloud,  what  sol- 
emn loneliness!  The  clouds — no  wonder  that 
the  Indian  of  the  plain  has  many  a  legend  about 
them! 

"Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou,  O  chief  of  the 

mighty  Omahas; 
Gloomy  and  dark  as  the  driving  cloud  whose 

name  thou  hast  taken." 

"Billowy  bays  of  grasses  ever  rolling  in  shadow 
and  sunshine." 

Magnificent!  But  this  imperfect  little  sketch 
cannot  reveal  the  truth,  can  only  suggest.  No- 
where are  the  clouds  more  wonderful  than  when 
over,  never  is  solitude  more  impressive  than  in 
the  open  prairies. 

The  clouds,  the  clouds !  Yes,  through  many  a 
twilight  hour,  I  watched,  lying  upon  the  tufted 
prairie  as  the  camp-fires  died  away,  the  clouds. 
Weird  was  the  hectic  flushing,  the  glow  of  the 


38  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

sheet  lightning  among  the  July  and  August  cu- 
muli. But  these  clouds  in  the  sketch  are  filled 
with  portent.  Not  only  is  the  prairie  darkened 
with  the  approach  of  night,  but  with  the  coming 
storm. 

Here  are  two  famous  objects ;  famous,  at  least, 
in  those  days,  not  far  apart,  and  following  each 
other  in  the  book— "The  Court  House,"  and 
"The  Chimney  Rock."  Distinctly  I  remember 
the  day  on  which  we  first  sighted  the  latter — a 
pale  blue  shaft  above  the  plain.  We  had  just 
formed  the  last  semi-circle  of  our  noon  corral  and 
through  its  western  opening  was  seen  the  Chim- 
ney, wavy  through  the  haze  that  arose  from  the 
heated  ground.  It  was  my  father  who  pointed  it 
out  to  me.  It  afterwards  seemed  to  us  that  the 
slow-going  oxen  would  never  reach  it;  or,  rather, 
that  they  would  never  arrive  at  the  point  in  the 
road  opposite  that  natural  curiosity ;  for  the  emi- 
grant trail  passed  several  miles  to  the  northward 
of  the  low  range  of  bluffs  of  which  "the  Chimney 
Rock"  is  a  part.  One  evening  several  of  our 
company  tried  to  walk  from  our  nearest  camp  to 


*6/     ' 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  39 

the  terraced  hills  that  formed  the  Chimney's  base, 
but  the  distance  proved  too  great.  That  was  one 
of  our  first  lessons  in  the  deceptiveness  of  space 
— the  distance  to  hills  and  mountains. 

From  the  banks  of  Lawrence  Creek,  from 
where  the  sketch  was  made,  the  bluffs,  and  the 
Half -Way-Post,  the  name  by  which  the  Chimney 
is  sometimes  suggestively  referred  to,  are  most 
picturesque.  Strings  of  wild  ducks  arose  from 
the  rushes  of  the  creek  side  as  our  train  ap- 
proached. 

"Scotts'  Bluffs"  make  a  very  different  picture 
from  those  of  the  O' Fallen's.  The  sedimentary 
heights  of  the  former,  with  their  strong  resem- 
blance to  walls  and  towers,  are  shown  in  the 
sketch  rosy  with  the  light  of  the  rising  sun.  In 
the  middle  distance,  in  a  little  swale  of  the  pic- 
ture, is  a  train  corralled,  the  still  blue  smoke  ris- 
ing in  many  a  straight  column  from  the  morning 
camp-fires.  In  the  foreground  are  sun-flowers,  a 
buffalo-skull  among  them. 

Ah!  here  is  a  sad,  dark  sketch — "Left  by  the 
Roadside."  A  tall,  rank  growth,  and  a  low,  half- 


40  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

sunken  headboard  are  seen  against  the  sky  in 
which  lingers  yet  a  red  flush  of  the  twilight.  Two 
or  three  stars  shed  their  pale  rays  from  afar,  and 
one  feels  that  the  silence,  is  unbroken  by  even  the 
faintest  sigh  of  wind.  But  certainly  there  will 
come  one  soon,  a  long,  shivering,  almost  moan- 
like  sound,  as  the  night  wind  begins  to  steal 
across  the  waste  and  gently  stirs  the  prairie  grass 
and  flowers. 

Yes,  after  those  years  it  is  the  Human  Com- 
edy; it  is  the  never-ending  drama!  It  is  the 
wonder  of  that  which  grows  upon  one.  It  is  the 
desires,  hopes,  trials,  pleasures,  sorrows  of  the 
race !  It  is  the  remembered  action  that  interests 
me  in  these  sketches.  The  book  is  filled  with  the 
transcripts  of  once  noted  places,  but  my  mind,  as 
I  look  upon  them,  is  filled  with  thoughts  of  men 
and  women.  It  is  those  who  passed  among  the 
scenes  who  are  of  interest  now.  I  recall  the  Pio- 
neers themselves.  I  think  of  them,  filled  with 
hope,  yet  anxious,  eager  to  begin  the  new  life 
that  lay  before  them. 

The  action!     The  search  for  the  Fountain  of 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  41 

Youth,  the  desire  for  knowledge,  the  thirst  for 
gold,  these  have  led  men  into  the  wilds;  it  has 
taken  them  to  brave  unknown  dangers  in  un- 
known lands.  Yes,  these,  the  Propaganda  and 
the  love  of  Freedom,  but  neither  is  stronger  than 
the  desire  for  Religious  Liberty.  Ponce  de  Leon 
in  the  Land  of  Flowers;  Lewis  and  Clark  making 
their  way  along  the  Oregon,  the  Catholic  Fath- 
ers, the  gold-seekers  of  California,  and  the  Puri- 
tans of  New  England — these  are  our  examples. 
And  like  the  latter  were  the  Pioneers  who  pre- 
ceded us  along  our  way.  And  our  company,  too, 
such  it  was  that  led  them.  Near  the  frontier  I 
had  looked  into  a  deserted  cabin — it  revealed  the 
ending  of  a  drama.  He  who  would  have  found 
the  magic  waters,  the  home  and  the  gold-seeker 
left  behind  them  many  a  lonely  grave.  The  Pro- 
pagandist, the  Lover  of  Freedom  left  their  bones 
in  many  an  unknown  spot.  And  the  Pioneers? 
They,  too,  must  leave  their  dead.  He  who  built 
that  deserted  cabin  had  met  with  failure, — death 
was  the  end.  But  the  seekers  of  Religious  Lib- 
erty? Surely  they  must  have  found  the  greater 


42  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

consolation  in  the  hour  of  trial;  to  them  must 
have  come  more  quickly  the  thought  of  peace. 

Action!  It  is  true;  one  might  have  become 
easily  wearied  of  the  monotonous  trip.  The 
shifting  panorama  might  have  become  monoto- 
nous in  its  shifting.  Monotonous,  I  mean,  were 
it  not  for,  I  repeat  the  word — the  action.  The 
plains,  the  streams,  the  rocks,  the  hills,  all  be- 
came important  because  these  led  the  way.  Ever 
my  thought  is  of  the  road. 

Countless  in  numbers  almost  were  the  graves, 
on  plain  and  mountain,  those  silent  witnesses  of 
death  by  the  way.  The  mounds  were  to  be  seen 
in  all  imaginable  places.  Each  day  we  passed 
them,  singly  or  in  groups,  and  sometimes,  nay, 
often,  one  of  our  own  company  was  left  behind 
to  swell  the  number.  By  the  banks  of  streams, 
on  grassy  hillocks,  in  the  sands,  beneath  groves 
of  trees,  or  among  piles  of  rock,  the  graves  were 
made.  We  left  the  new  mounds  to  be  scorched 
by  the  sun,  beaten  upon  by  the  tempests,  or  for 
beauty  or  desolation  to  gather  around  as  it  had 
about  many  of  the  older  ones.  Sometimes  when 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  43 

we  camped  the  old  graves  would  be  directly 
alongside  the  wagons.  I  recall  sitting  by  one 
that  was  thickly  covered  with  grass  and  without 
a  headboard  while  I  ate  my  evening  meal,  and  of 
sleeping  by  it  at  night.  One  remains  in  my  mind 
as  a  very  soothing  little  picture,  a  child's  grave ; 
and  it  was  screened  around  with  a  thicket  of  wild 
rose  that  leaned  lovingly  over  it,  while  the  mound 
itself  was  overgrown  with  bright,  green  moss. 
I  fancied  then  that  the  parents  of  that  child  were 
they  yet  living,  the  mother,  who,  no  doubt,  had 
left  that  grave  with  such  agony  of  heart,  such 
blinding  or  tearless  grief,  would  have  liked,  in- 
deed, to  have  heard  the  sweet  singing  of  the  wild 
birds  in  the  rose  thicket,  and  have  seen  how 
daintily  nature  had  decked  that  last  bed  of  the 
loved  one. 

How  painful  were  the  circumstances  attending 
the  first  burial  in  our  train.  A  woman  died  one 
evening,  we  were  about  ten  days  out,  just  as  the 
moon  had  risen  over  the  prairies,  and  swiftly  the 
tidings  spread  through  the  camp.  Next  morn- 
ing, it  was  the  Sabbath  Day,  she  was  buried,  laid 


44  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

to  rest  on  a  low,  grassy  hill  top  near  the  banks 
of  a  stream.  Never  can  I  forget  the  grief  of  her 
children  as  the  body  of  their  mother  was  lowered 
into  the  ground.  I  can  hear  their  cries  yet, 
those  cries  that  they  gave,  as  they  were  led  away, 
and  their  wagon  departed  with  the  rest.  A  net- 
work of  stakes  was  placed  across  the  grave  to 
keep  away  the  robber  wolves;  a  short,  short  ser- 
mon was  preached,  a  hymn  was  then  sung,  ac- 
companied by  the  plaintive  wailing  of  a  clarinet, 
and  prayer  made  to  the  services  a  solemn  close. 

That  first  death  made  a  sad  impression  upon 
us.  But  after  a  while  the  burials  from  our  com- 
pany had  become  so  frequent,  that  they  lost 
much  of  their  saddening  power;  or,  rather,  we 
refused  to  retain  so  deeply  the  sadness,  throwing 
it  off  in  self  defense. 

The  outline  which  follows  brings  up  a  different 
train  of  thought — "Camp  material  abandoned 
after  an  attack  by  Indians."  The  ground  is  lit- 
tered with  all  sorts  of  indescribable  things.  Panic 
is  evident  in  the  reckless  tossing  away  of  every 
kind  of  articles;  anything  to  lighten  the  loads, 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  45 

so  that  the  fear-struck  emigrants  could  hurry 
forward.  This  was  the  train  immediately  pre- 
ceding ours,  and  a  couple  of  days  later  we  passed 
one  of  those  prairie  letters — an  ox-shoulder  blade 
or  skull — on  which  was  written : 

"Captain  Chipman's  train  passed  here 
August  14th,  ,1866. 

8  deaths, 

90  head  of  cattle  driven  away  by  the  Indians. 
Great  scare  in  camp." 

Apropos  of  alarms  from  Indians  there  is  a 
rapidly  executed  subject,  from  memory  the  next 
day,  that  brings  back  a  night  of  peril  and  sorrow. 
It  was  on  the  western  slope  of  the  Black  Hills, 
and  there  were  four  wagons  of  us  belated  from 
the  general  train.  We  were  the  last  five  on  the 
right-wing,  and  the  right-wing  was  the  latter 
half  of  the  train  that  night,  so,  practically,  we 
were  alone.  There  was  a  dead  woman  in  the 
wagon  next  to  ours,  and  to  hear  the  weeping  and 
sobbing  of  her  little  children,  in  the  dark  beside 


46  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

the  corpse,  was  heart  chilling.  The  poor  hus- 
band trudged  along  on  foot  hurrying  his  single 
yoke  of  footsore  cattle.  Still  we  were  far  be- 
hind; liable  at  any  moment  to  be  cut-off  by  the 
prowling  Sioux.  That  was  a  night  to  remember. 

Here  are  two  scenes  among  the  Black  Hills 
themselves,  one  is  a  very  suggestive  sketch  show- 
ing rocks,  timber-clad  bluffs,  and  ragged  peaks 
with  the  wagons  of  our  train  coming  down  a 
deep  declivity  into  a  dry  torrent  bed.  Wild 
clouds  are  coming  over  the  peaks  threatening  a 
stormy  night.  It  appears  that  the  wagons  must 
topple  over,  end  over  end,  so  abrupt  is  the  de- 
scent they  are  making.  In  the  second  sketch, 
made  on  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  the 
train  is  seen  winding  like  a  serpent  over  the 
hills.  In  the  middle  distance  is  a  valley,  partly 
obscured  by  mists,  and  beyond  it  Laramie  Peak, 
purple  against  the  sunset  clouds  and  sky. 

The  night  drives  were  among  the  most  trying 
experiences  upon  the  Overland  Journey.  Usually 
they  were  made  necessary  to  us  from  the  drying 
up  of  some  spring  or  stream  where  we  had  ex- 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  47 

pected  to  make  our  evening  camp,  and  the  conse- 
quent lack  of  water  for  the  people  as  well  as 
cattle,  so  that  we  must  move  forward.  Our 
worst  drive  of  this  kind  was  to  reach  the  La 
Prelle  River  after  leaving  Fort  Laramie,  Saint 
John's,  on  the  night  which  followed  the  making 
of  the  first  of  the  two  sketches  just  mentioned. 
Wildly  the  lightnings  glared,  their  livid  tongues 
licked  the  ground  beside  us.  The  road  was  de- 
luged in  the  downpour  of  rain;  and  what  with 
the  sudden  flashes  of  light,  the  crashing  of  thun- 
der, the  poor  cattle  were  quite  panic-stricken.  It 
was  hard  work  to  make  the  poor  brutes  face  the 
storm.  Yet,  after  all,  their  sagacity  was  greater 
than  ours.  Several  times  we  would  have  driven 
them  over  the  edge  of  a  precipice  had  not  their 
keener  senses  warned  them  back.  We  would 
have  shuddered,  so  our  Captain  afterwards  told 
us,  could  we  have  seen  where  the  tracks  of  our 
wagon  wheels  were  made  that  night. 

Yes,  to  the  emigrant  company  of  those  days, 
the  drying  up  of  a  stream  was  often  of  serious 
import.  Water  enough  might  have  been  carried 


48  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

to  quench  the  thirst  of  human  beings,  but  what 
of  the  many  cattle?  The  ox  that  suffers  too 
much  from  thirst  becomes  a  dangerous  animal. 
Let  him  scent  in  the  distance  the  coveted  water, 
and  who  shall  curb  his  strength?  How  nearly 
we  met  with  disaster  from  this  same  cause. 
Almost  useless  were  the  brakes ;  how  fiercely  the 
thirst  tortured  animals  strained  at  their  yokes. 
It  was  a  pitiful  sight,  and  as  we  approached  the 
broken,  boulder-strewn  edge  of  the  stream,  our 
position  was  somewhat  dangerous.  No  less 
dangerous  was  the  task  of  removing  the  yokes 
from  the  impatient  creatures,  and  of  unloosing 
the  chains. 

I  try  to  recall  my  diary,  for  I  did  keep  a  diary. 
I  did  not  find  it  among  the  old  relics  where  was 
hidden  the  sketch-book,  and  the  chances  are  that 
long  since  it  has  been  destroyed,  perhaps  fed  to 
the  flames.  In  spite  of  slightness  it  must  have 
contained  many  an  interesting  fact  about  "The 
Journey."  But  I  cannot  recall  a  word.  The 
events  which  gave  rise  to  its  entries  grow  fresh 
in  my  mind,  but  the  wording  of  the  matter  itself 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  49 

is  gone.  I  know  it  contained  the  data  which 
would  give  the  exact  number  of  hours  in  which 
we  were  upon  the  road,  and  that  I  would  like  to 
know.  I  remember  writing  about  Scott's  Bluffs, 
and  how  they  received  their  name.  One  fancied 
that  he  could  see  the  wounded  trapper,  aban- 
doned and  dying  alone,  and  wondered  if  he 
crawled  down  from  the  bluffs,  and  along  the  way 
we  were  travelling.  And  which  was  the  spot, 
too,  where,  at  last,  his  bones  were  found.  There 
was  something,  too,  about  the  gathering  of  buf- 
falo chips,  and  the  seeking  of  firewood.  On  the 
latter  quest,  what  lonely  spots  we  did  visit !  One 
comes  to  my  mind  at  this  moment.  How  weirdly 
the  wind  choired  in  the  ancient  cedars,  and  how 
very  old  appeared  the  boulders  with  their  mot- 
tling of  lichens,  and  with  what  a  dismal  yelp  a 
ragged  coyote  leaped  from  his  lair  and  scam- 
pered down  a  rock-strewn  gully!  It  was  tanta- 
lizing at  times  to  keep  to  the  road.  How  could 
one  resist  the  temptation  to  throw  off  restraint, 
and,  putting  all  prudence  aside,  wander  or  go 
galloping  on  horseback  away  over  hill  and 


50  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

through  dale  ?  What  if  the  redman  did  lie  in  the 
path?  He  could  be  a  brother.  O,  but  to  be  like 
the  Indian;  to  live  wild  and  free,  to  be  "iron- 
jointed,  supple-sinewed,  to  hurl  our  lances  in  the 
sun!" 

This,  of  course,  was  on  those  days  when,  hav- 
ing taken  "the  winds  and  sushine  into  our  veins," 
we  felt  stirred  within  us  the  instincts  of  primal 
man.  At  other  times  we  were  sober-minded 
enough.  The  romance  of  being  out  in  the  wilds 
was  terribly  chilled  by  an  inclement  sky.  A  few 
days  of  drizzling  rain  tried  the  most  ardent  spirit. 
Then  it  was  that  the  disagreeableness  of  the  time 
made  the  true  metal  of  the  emigrant  show  itself. 
Whatever  traits  of  character  he  possessed — self- 
ishness, senseless  fault-finding,  or  those  rare 
qualities  of  kindness,  cheerful  content,  and  ready 
helpfulness — all  come  out.  In  Mark  Tapley's 
own  phrase,  it  was  all  very  well  to  "come  out 
strong"  when  by  the  warm  glow  of  the  flames  or 
when  moving  along  with  the  bright  blue  sky 
above  us,  but  it  was  quite  another  task  to  remain 
cheerful  when  the  incessant  rain  made  impossible 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  51 

even  the  smallest  or  most  sheltered  of  camp- 
fires,  and  one  crept  into  his  bed  upon  the  ground 
with  wet  clothes  and  with  flesh  chilled  to  the 
bone,  without  even  the  solace  of  a  cup  of  hot  tea 
or  coffee. 

Hardly  less  trying  were  the  days  of  dust- 
storms.  What  misery  it  was  when  the  wind 
blew  from  the  front  and  the  whole  cloud  of  dust 
raised  by  over  three  hundred  yoke  of  cattle,  and 
the  motion  of  sixty-five  wagons  drove  in  our 
faces!  How  intolerably  our  eyes  and  our  nos- 
trils burned,  and  how  quickly  our  ears  were  filled 
with  the  flying  sand  or  alkali ! 

I  should  like  to  read  once  more,  those  diary 
entries.  Was  there  anything  written,  I  wonder, 
about  those  silhouettes  upon  the  hills?  What 
did  it  tell,  if  anything,  about  the  alarm  that  was 
spread  through  our  Company?  Had  we — the 
unlearned — known  more  about  the  ways  of  the 
Indian  we  would  have  realized  that  they — those 
shadows — were  no  Sioux.  Yet  it  was  disturbing 
to  the  unknowing  to  see  those  figures,  those 
mysteriously  moving  horsemen  of  the  night. 


52  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

Thank  heaven!  It  was  but  our  own  scouting 
herdsmen.  But  for  once,  to  those  assembled 
within  the  corral  centre,  O,  how  too  long  seemed 
the  hymn,  and  even  the  prayer !  How  impatient 
we  were  to  know  the  truth. 

In  "The  Cedar  Bluffs"  the  wagons  that  are 
sketched  corralled  are  not  our  own.  They  com- 
prised a  small  freight  train,  and  right  glad  would 
they  have  been  to,  and  most  likely  they  did,  creep 
along,  as  it  were,  in  our  wake.  There  were  no 
women  or  children  in  that  train,  its  members 
were  all  of  the  daring  "freighter."  These  were 
men  willing  to  meet  with  any  danger.  Perhaps 
there  might  be  among  them  men  inexperienced, 
but  they  must  have  possessed  intrepid  hearts. 
Rough  of  the  rough,  but  daring  they  certainly 
were.  Woe  to  that  little  band  if  later  they  met 
the  Sioux.  It  would  mean,  for  them,  annihila- 
tion. What  rude  pranks  the  Indian  did  some- 
times play!  The  Sioux  or  Cheyenne,  he  would 
take  bales  of  bright  stuffs  which  he  sometimes 
found  in  the  freighters'  wagons,  fasten  one  end 
of  it  to  his  pony  and  let  the  hundred  yards  un- 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  53 

ravel  and  flaunt  on  the  winds  as  wildly  he  dashed 
across  the  plain.  There  was  a  brutally  comic 
side  to  the  character  of  the  western  Indian. 

A  brutal  side!  Yes,  and  there  was  often  a 
comic  side  to  the  white  man's  fear.  Well,  in- 
deed, a  friend  of  mine  has  told  it.  Twelve  young 
men  comprised  a  company;  two  wagons  and  six 
yoke  of  oxen  made  up  their  outfit.  That  cer- 
tainly was  taking  their  risks  in  those  perilous 
times!  Yet  they  were  unmolested.  Once,  in- 
deed, they  thought  themselves  at  the  mercy  of 
the  Sioux;  as  truly,  in  another  way  they  were. 
Death  and  the  scalping-knife  appeared  their  lot. 
But  it  was  all  a  hoax.  What  had  been  taken  for 
the  painted  savage  was  but  a  party  of  whites 
with  blankets  over  their  heads  to  keep  away 
the  rain.  Taking  into  consideration  the  really 
dangerous  position  of  the  little  band,  there  was 
a  tragic-farcical  touch  in  their  list  of  arms.  My 
friend's  sole  means  of  defense  was  a  butcher- 
knife  some  six  inches  long. 

But  in  a  later  adventure,  so  he  told  me,  the 
farcical  part  was  left  out.  That  was  an  experi- 


54  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

ence  in  which,  if  the  tragedy  was  also  wanting, 
there  was  a  most  severe  test  upon  his  nerves.  He 
had  left  the  camp,  taking  a  fowling  piece  with 
him,  and  he  wandered  along  a  stream.  He  had 
just  taken  sight  upon  a  skein  of  wild  fowl,  and 
was  about  to  fire,  when  suddenly  a  band  of  In- 
dians came  from  behind  a  bank,  and  in  another 
instant  the  shot  would  have  been  among  them. 
But  luckily  he  had  not  pulled  the  trigger.  How- 
ever his  attitude,  the  pointed  gun  made  him  an 
object  of  suspicion.  The  Indians  were  upon  the 
war-path,  but  not  with  the  whites  just  then.  My 
friend  was  surrounded,  and  he  must  explain  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  savages  who  he  was,  and 
why  he  was  there.  He  was  finally  released,  how- 
ever, upon  proof  that  he  was  from  a  camp  of 
whites  near  by.  But  all  the  same  it  was  an  or- 
deal to  stand  surrounded  by  those  painted  sav- 
ages, scalps  dangling  from  their  pony  saddles. 
And  it  was  one  that  the  actor  therein  would  not 
have  cared  to  repeat. 

It  did  produce  upon  one  a  disturbing  sensation ; 
that  knowledge,  I  mean,  of  how  often  the  eyes  of 


41 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  55 

ambushed  Indians  might  be  fixed  upon  one.  And 
the  wild  animals,  too!  From  the  distance  they 
watched.  Herds  of  buffalo,  perhaps,  or  of  deer, 
looked  upon  our  moving  train  from  the  plateau 
tops.  Beyond  the  flaming  yellow  sunflowers, 
amid  the  bright  red  of  the  rocky  hills,  the  Sioux 
was  often  concealed.  His  face  was  painted  of 
the  same  gaudy  colors,  and  he  looked  with  blood- 
lust  upon  us.  We  knew  not  when  this  might  be ; 
yet  that  it  was  always  possible  gave  a  sort  of 
aspect  of  menace  to  the  bluffs  and  hills  along  the 
way. 

Many  a  time  had  Captain  Holladay  with  his 
natural  caution  gained  from  experience;  his  sa- 
gacity and  knowledge,  given  a  timely  warning. 
The  girls  must  not  be  led  too  far  by  their  passion 
for  the  gathering  of  flowers.  How  often  had  the 
desire  to  possess  some  especially  beautiful  or  bril- 
liant, some  alluring  bunch  of  desert  bloom  tempt- 
ed them  beyond  the  lines  of  safety.  Especially 
true  was  this  among  the  Black  Hills  and  the 
mountain  ranges,  too,  beyond  them.  There  was 
danger,  also,  in  the  going  for  water,  the  dipping 


56  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

places  were  often  at  quite  a  distance  from  the 
camp.  How  terrible  an  example  was  that  which 
occurred  in  one  of  the  trains  which  crossed  the 
Hills  the  year  before  our  own.  It  was  on  the 
banks  of  the  LaBonte  River.  A  band  of  five 
Sioux  suddenly  dashed  out  from  amid  a  clump  of 
trees  on  the  river  bank,  and  carried  away,  beyond 
all  hope  of  rescue,  one  of  two  girls  who  had  rash- 
ly gone  too  far  down  the  stream.  The  train  re- 
mained at  the  river  for  a  period  of  three  days,  the 
Indians  were  pursued  for  many  miles,  but  it  was 
all  in  vain.  The  young  husband  never  saw  his 
young  wife  again.  One  of  the  young  women  was 
slightly  in  advance  of  the  other,  and  those  few 
steps  made  this  difference,  that  one  was  lost,  the 
other  saved.  And  the  young  woman  who  es- 
caped was  the  writer's  sister. 

Something  of  all  the  passions ;  something  of  all 
the  passions — joy,  love,  hope,  fear,  and  the 
others,  too,  must  have  been  recorded  in  the  pages 
of  that  diary.  Or,  rather,  there  should  have  been 
had  the  youthful  writer  of  those  pages  put  down 
upon  them  what  he  once  actually  looked  upon, 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  57 

as  now  he  recalls  them  mentally.  They  must 
have  told,  too,  how  a  foe  even  stronger  than  the 
Sioux,  one  not  to  be  gainsaid,  took  away  a  sister 
at  last.  We  took  the  oaken  wagon  seats  to  make 
her  little  coffin.  Did  it  tell  how  we  laid  her  away 
to  rest;  after  those  days  of  suffering,  when  she 
was  carried  by  turns  in  our  arms,  to  save  her 
what  pain  we  could ;  did  it  tell,  then,  how  she  was 
laid  beneath  the  cottonwoods,  where  ripple  the 
waters  of  the  Laramie,  and  how  the  soil  was 
hardly  replaced  in  the  grave  ere  we  must  depart? 
Did  it  tell  of  the  wild  night  of  storm  and  dark- 
ness, through  which  later  we  passed?  The  re- 
mainder of  "The  Journey"  was  for  us,  darkened 
by  that  ever-remembered  tragedy. 

Love,  upon  "The  Journey" — O  it  was  sure  to 
come!  Where  will  not  love  follow,  where  is  it 
not  to  be  found?  Coquettishly  the  sun-bonnet 
may  be  worn;  coquettishly  the  sun-flower  may  be 
placed  at  the  waist,  or  the  cactus  bloom  amid  the 
dark-brown  hair.  By  what  strange  and  circuit- 
ous routes  are  lovers  brought  to  meet !  Through 
what  strange  and  unforseen  circumstances  does 


58  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

love  begin!  In  our  Company  were  there  not 
those  maidens  who  could  still  walk  coquettishly 
and  with  grace,  although  it  was  their  truthful 
boast  that  their  feet  had  measured  each  mile  of 
the  lengthened  way?  Were  there  not  those  in 
whose  red  cheeks  the  prairie  sun  kissed  English 
blood?  The  man  from  the  west,  why  should  he 
not  learn  to  love  that  beauty  from  Albion's  Isle? 
How  delightful  when  danger  did  not  lie  in  am- 
bush, to  walk,  arm  locked  in  arm,  far  ahead  of  the 
leading  wagon;  how  delightful  to  sit  amid  the 
flowers  and  to  feel  the  solitude  of  the  boundless 
prairie!  Yet  love  is  a  danger  that  lurks  every- 
where. To  linger,  ever  so  short  a  distance  be- 
hind the  train  was  a  grave  offense.  Each  mem- 
ber of  the  Company  knew  this  rule,  they  knew  it 
was  a,  rule  that  must  not  be  broken.  Of  course 
one  need  not  make  a  capture  as  did  that  savage 
brave ;  one  need  not,  whirling  by  upon  his  desert 
horse,  stoop  sideways  and  lift  to  his  side  a 
screaming  and  unwilling  bride.  Nor  did  one 
care  to  imitate  that  enamored  chieftain  of  the 
Cheyennes.  Should  one  make  an  offer  of  a  hun- 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  59 

dred  ponies?  Yet,  if  the  Captain,  upon  his  steed, 
like  a  Knight  of  old,  should  be  found  with  a 
pretty  girl  riding  beside  him,  what  an  example 
for  others  to  follow !  One  there  was  in  our  Com- 
pany, a  youth,  who  had  returned  from  the  west, 
passing  over  the  road  again  to  find  his  father's 
grave.  He  had  come,  too,  to  meet  his  mother 
and  sister  by  the  Missouri's  banks.  Fate  had 
willed,  however,  that  the  father's  grave  should 
not  be  found ;  two  years  had  elapsed  since  it  had 
been  made,  and  nature,  with  storm  and  floods  had 
hidden  it  away,  and  so  the  one  who  slept  there, 
sleeps  there  still,  and  the  mountain  winds,  the 
thunder,  and  the  voice  of  the  passing  stream,  still 
make  his  requiem.  On  that  eastward  trip  our 
Captain  had  learned  to  love  this  youth.  And  on 
the  westward  trip  he  learned  to  love  even  more 
the  sister.  For  she  it  was  who  later  became  our 
Captain's  wife.  But  why  repeat  the  romance? 

Life,  Romance,  Death — indeed  they  were  busy 
in  our  little  world !  The  space  between  the  two 
semi-circles  of  wagons  made  a  wide  division;  it 
was  like  the  two  sides  of  a  street,  each  wagon  a 


60  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

dwelling.  One  could  hardly  believe  that  in  such 
a  company,  isolated  from  all  the  rest  of  mankind, 
such  a  separation  could  exist.  Yet  such  a  separa- 
tion existed  between  "the  wings."  At  times  the 
members  of  the  one  side  hardly  knew  what  was 
happening  among  those  of  the  other.  But  there 
were  certain  events,  of  course,  that  would  form 
the  link.  As  we  proceed  upon  our  way  what 
changes  come !  I  mean  into  the  lives  and  hearts 
of  many.  But  come  there  new  joy,  or  come  there 
new  sorrow,  the  Pioneer  must  live  the  pioneer's 
life.  There  were  always  the  labor,  the  priva- 
tions, a  certain  kind  of  pleasure.  There  was  left 
but  little  time  in  which  to  brood.  Except,  it  may 
be,  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night.  There  was 
something  remarkable,  too,  about  the  manner  in 
which  the  cattle  became  imbued  with  the  spirit 
of  their  driver.  What  individuality,  for  instance, 
there  was  among  the  cattle  themselves,  our  own 
four  yoke,  I  mean,  it  was  modified  by  the  driver. 
Tex  and  Mex,  Spot  and  Jeff,  how  easy  to  distin- 
guish their  characters  from  that  of  either  Tom 
and  Jerry,  or  Lep  and  Dick.  And  yet  as  a  body 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  61 

how  quickly  they  reflected  the  mental  condition 
of  the  one  who  drove  them.  Be  he  calm,  be  he 
dejected  or  peevish,  and  the  cattle  knew  it  at 
once. 

Here  is  a  suggestion  of  a  sometimes  unpleasant 
duty— "The  Night  Guard."  His  was  a  trust  in 
which  anxiety  and  danger  were  often  combined. 
The  picket  on  duty  at  the  front  of  war  is  scarcely 
more  important  to  the  safety  of  the  troops  than 
was  the  Night-Guard  to  our  Company.  In  those 
days  of  lawlessness  in  red  man  and  white,  con- 
stant vigil  had  to  be  kept.  On  the  faithful  per- 
formance of  the  Night-Guard's  duty  our  safety 
depended.  If  we  were  not  attacked,  then  the 
cattle  might  be  driven  away,  and  we  might  be  left 
stranded,  as  it  were,  in  the  wilderness.  Alone 
with  his  thoughts,  this  important  one  at  his  post, 
had  ample  opportunity  for  careful  reflection.  The 
youth  of  the  writer  released  him  from  the  duty  of 
guard,  and  his  father  suffered  from  an  accident — 
a  foot  partly  crushed  by  one  of  the  oxen — but  as 
owners  of  cattle,  as  "Independents,"  we  must  do 
a  share  and  a  double  task  fell  to  the  lot  of  an 


62  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

older  brother.  We  had  seen  the  disaster  which 
came  upon  the  Company  preceding  ours,  and  at 
Deer  Creek  we  had  also  seen  heaps  of  red  and  yet 
smoking  embers,  all  that  remained  of  the  station 
there,  and  of  the  surrounding  cabins.  We  knew 
that  the  Indians  who  had  done  both  the  acts  of 
driving  away  the  cattle  and  applying  the  torch, 
were,  in  all  likelihood,  watching  upon  the  road 
for  us.  Our  Captain  never  allowed  an  inexperi- 
enced man  to  occupy  too  important  a  post,  but 
the  "tenderfoot"  could  serve  as  aid. 

We,  like  ships  that  pass  on  the  sea,  sometimes 
spoke  a  returned.  No  gloomy  recital  of  disap- 
pointment could  turn  us  back.  The  Golden  West 
was  our  goal,  and  those  who  returned  were  but, 
to  us,  the  too  timid  ones.  In  truth,  has  not  the 
dream  of  the  Pioneer  been  fully  realized?  Those 
men  and  women  who  endured  so  much?  Did 
they  not  gain,  enmass,  the  victory?  And  those 
who  fell  by  the  way — they  were  as  those  who 
perish  in  battle,  but  who  leave  the  fruits  of  their 
devotion  and  success  to  others.  Those  young 
men  who  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheels,  when 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  63 

our  wagon  might  have  otherwise  become  fast  in 
the  quicksands  of  the  Platte,  and  those  older  men 
and  women,  too,  that  I  looked  upon  as  they 
trudged  toward  the  West  with  the  dogged  deter- 
mination of  age,  all  made  possible  the  future  com- 
monwealth. They  ate  of  the  fruit  that  was 
raised  from  the  soil,  their  sons  and  daughters  in- 
herited the  land. 

Men  who  now  count  their  wealth  by  hundreds 
of  thousands,  some  by  the  millions  of  dollars,  can 
remember  their  vain  strivings  when  poor  and  on 
night-guard  to  look  into  the  future;  to  see  some 
faint  glimpses  of  what  Providence  held  in  store 
for  them  in  the  Westward,  Ho ! 

Three  subjects  that  follow  are  by  the  Sweet- 
water  River.  In  one  the  Rattlesnake  Hills  are 
shown  dim  in  the  summer  haze ;  in  the  second  is 
the  Rock  Independence,  and  in  the  third  is  the 
noted  "Devil's  Gate,"  with  its  reflection  in  a  pool 
of  the  stream.  What  a  real  blessing,  though  per- 
haps in  disguise,  is  often  enforced  attention;  en- 
forced activity!  Upon  "The  Journey"  such  it 
was.  O,  it  was  a  balm  to  many  an  aching  heart ! 


64  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

A  blessing  the  swiftly-changing  scenes,  the  labor, 
the  unavoidable  routine  of  camp-life!  Those 
whose  trials  were  so  great ;  those  whose  grief  was 
so  intense ;  those  who  were  so  quickly  compelled 
to  leave  the  new-made  graves  of  their  dead ;  yes, 
even  these  must  take  their  part.  There  was  no 
escape.  It  was  a  fiat — "thou  shalt."  The  very 
aged,  the  sick  would  lift  themselves  up  in  their 
beds  to  look  upon  some  famous  place.  The  Rock 
Independence,  The  Devil's  Gate — was  not  the 
writer  propped  up  with  pillows  to  look  out, 
through  the  opening  of  the  covers  at  the  wagon 
front,  upon  them?  Those  places  we  had  thought 
of,  spoken  of,  for  three  months  past — there  they 
were.  Many  looked  at  them  through  tear- 
dimmed,  or  sick-weary  eyes.  The  apathy  that 
sometimes  comes  upon  the  traveller  when  he  has 
reached  some  famous  or  hoped-for  place,  is  well 
understood.  But  sometimes  these  climaxes  are 
too  strong  even  for  that  to  conquer.  The  burial- 
tree  of  the  Sioux ;  the  first  band  of  Indian  braves; 
the  buckskin  dressed,  the  beaded,  the  dusky  beau- 
ty of  the  wild,  they  made  a  claim.  Yes,  as  I 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  65 

said,  even  the  heart-stricken  must  look  around, 

i 

must  take  an  interest,  even  if  languid  or  dislik- 
ing, in  the  passing  world.  There  was  perhaps  a 
cruel  kindness  in  this  fact.  All  were  compelled 
to  hear  the  music,  the  singing,  the  laughing,  the 
dancing,  that  followed,  be  the  Company  never  so 
weary,  after  many  a  long  day's  travel.  This  all 
could  hear  as  well  as  the  hymn,  the  prayer.  A 
sudden  shout— "antelope !"  "buffalo!"  would 
rouse  the  most  dejected.  Weariness,  grief,  found 
many  a  strange  yet  wholesome  tonic. 

These  questions  occur  to  me  while  I  write: 
Had  the  emigrants  remained  at  home,  would 
more  of  them  have  lived,  would  more  of  them 
have  died?  I  mean,  would  they  have  longer 
lived,  have  later  died?  Ah,  where  comes  not 
life's  tragedy?  Come  or  go,  remain — the  end  is 
still  the  same ! 

"An  Exhausted  Ox."  This  was  a  sight  that 
was  not  infrequent.  When,  upon  the  road,  the 
strength  of  an  ox  gave  out,  when  it  could  go  no 
further,  and  tottered  or  fell,  wearied  beyond  en- 
durance, beside  its  mate,  it  was  a  matter  of  no 


66  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

small  import.  It  meant,  perhaps,  the  loss  of  the 
yoke,  of  their  use,  I  mean,  for  it  was  hard  to  re- 
mate  an  ox  upon  the  road.  Yet,  at  times,  it  must 
be  done.  A  plug  of  tobacco,  bound  between  two 
slices  of  bacon,  such  was  the  medicine  that  was 
administered  to  the  ailing  ox.  It  was  a  kill  or  a 
cure ;  sometimes  it  was  the  one,  sometimes  it  was 
the  other.  Lep  and  Dick,  the  "wheelers"  to  our 
leading  wagon,  were  the  largest  cattle  in  the  en- 
tire train.  And  Dick,  especially,  was  big,  and  he, 
at  our  very  last  camping-ground,  laid  down  and 
died.  But  it  was  from  the  eating  of  wild  parsley. 
But,  in  few  cases,  there  was  hardship,  distress  in- 
flicted upon  the  emigrant  by  the  loss  of  cattle.  I 
have  already  instanced  one  case,  that  of  the  un- 
fortunate man,  whose  wife  died  at  night  upon  the 
slopes  of  the  Black  Hills. 

I  am  here  reminded  to  mention  another  fact. 
It  was  really  quite  a  disclosure  to  see  the  chang- 
ing appearance  of  the  train.  Not  alone  as  it 
changed  from  week  to  week,  becoming  more  and 
more  travel  marked,  but  also  as  it  changed  in 
appearance,  in  order,  I  mean,  from  hour  to  hour, 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  67 

as  we  moved  upon  the  road.  In  making  the  daily 
start — morn  or  noonday — the  wagons  would  take 
their  place  in  the  line  with  an  almost  mathemat- 
ical accuracy.  The  noses  of  each  leading  yoke  of 
cattle  would  nearly  touch  the  end-board  of  the 
wagon  preceding  them.  But  soon  this  order  was 
broken.  Such  an  incident  as  that  related  in  the 
former  paragraph,  or  if  not  the  actual  happening, 
then  the  weakened  pulling  force  caused  by  some 
happening  of  the  day  or  week  before,  was  the 
cause.  And,  of  course,  this  became  the  more 
pronounced  amid  the  mountains  than  upon  the 
plains.  To  keep  this  train  compact  under  the  cir- 
cumstances was  one  of  the  chief  labors  of  the 
Captain  and  his  aids. 

Here  is  a  wide  gap  in  the  locale  of  the  sketches. 

It  is  the  result  of  a  mountain  fever.  What  a 
gloriously  majestic  outline  the  peaks  of  the  Wind 
River  Mountains  make,  and  especially  from  that 
spot,  the  High  Springs,  in  the  South  Pass !  De- 
lightsome days  were  ours  as  we  moved  slowly 
forward  through  that  broad  and  famous  highway, 
with  that  towering  range  of  mountains  all  the 


68  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

while  seeming  to  gaze  down  upon  us!     Joyfully 
we  burst  into  song: 

"All  hail  ye  snow-capped  mountains! 
Golden  sunbeams  smile." 

We  made  there,  in  the  South  Pass,  if  I  count 
correctly,  our  two  hundredth  camp-fire.  There, 
indeed,  with  our  veiw,  were  the  mountains;  there, 
among  those  gray  and  storm-worn  boulders  of 
granite,  welled  forth  the  waters — those  that 
flowed  not  to  be  lost  in  the  Atlantic,  but  in  the 
Pacific.  That  dividing  line,  that  mighty  ridge 
was  the  "Backbone  of  the  Continent."  Indeed, 
with  our  first  descent,  and  we  were  with  the 
West.  Pacific  Creek  would  be  our  next  camp- 
ing spot,  and  westward  its  waters  would  run. 
From  either  of  these  great  peaks,  the  Snowy  or 
Fremont's,  how  near  we  might  see  to  the  place  of 
our  destination.  From  these  summits  might  we 
not  discern  other  summits;  mountains  farther  to 
the  west;  the  ranges  whose  bases  were  near  to 
the  Inland  Sea?  Afar  away  it  was  over  the 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  69 

heights  and  vales,  and  yet  it  brought  a  message 
— "You  are  near  the  place  of  rest." 

"A  Buffalo  Herd."  This  sketch  could  well 
have  preceded  several,  instead  of  following,  the 
one  that  it  does.  By  the  Sweetwater  and  along 
the  reaches  of  the  Platte,  there  we  sighted  buf- 
falo. And  in  Ash  Hollow,  too,  and  by  La  Foche, 
or  the  East  Boise  River,  we  had  seen  the  shaggy 
creatures.  Here,  across  a  wind-swept  level,  be- 
tween two  mountain  slopes,  the  buffalo  were 
changing  pasture,  moving  leisurely  toward  the 
south.  They  knew  when  would  come  the  storms; 
they  knew  where  better  they  should  be  met. 
Each  eye-witness  has  told,  verbally  or  in  print, 
how  a  distant  herd  of  buffalo  appears.  They  re- 
semble a  grove  of  low,  thick-set  trees  or  bushes. 
On  a  distant  plain  or  along  a  hillside,  their  round- 
ed forms  might  be  easily  mistaken,  were  it  not 
for  the  moving,  for  clustered,  sun-browned  shrub- 
oak.  Ash  Hollow  was  once  a  familiar  resort  for 
the  now  rare  animal.  A  traveller  once  saw  there 
a  herd  which  could  scarcely  have  numbered  less 
than  fifty  to  sixty  thousand.  So  vast  were  once 


70  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

the  herds  in  the  Valley  of  the  Upper  Platte,  that 
it  would  sometimes  take  several  days  for  one  of 
them  to  pass  a  given  point.  Woe  to  the  small 
party  of  emigrants  that  happened  to  be  in  their 
track — I  mean  a  herd  of  frightened  buffaloes. 
Annihilation  was  their  fate.  The  herd  that  we 
now  looked  upon  was  not  so  great,  yet  it  was 
large  enough  to  resemble  a  moving  wood.  Slow 
at  first,  then  with  a  headlong  rush,  and  then, 
thank  heaven !  the  herd  dashed  in  another  direc- 
tion than  ours. 

Helter  skelter,  maddened  by  fear,  with  nostrils 
distended,  with  set  and  glaring  eyes,  blind  as 
their  wild  fellows,  scarcely  less  dangerous,  was  a 
stampede  of  cattle.  No  longer  the  patient,  sub- 
missive creatures,  whose  pace  seemed  ever  too 
slow  to  our  eager  desires,  but  stupid  beasts,  full 
of  fury,  dashing,  they  knew,  they  cared  not, 
where.  A  stampede  of  yoked  and  hitched  cattle 
was  one  of  the  most  thrilling  episodes  of  our 
Journey.  What  was  the  cause  of  the  stampede 
I  cannot  recall,  but  its  terror  I  will  not  forget. 
What  a  screaming  came  from  my  younger  broth- 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  71 

ers,  huddled  in  the  wagon,  and  I  may  add  with 
truth,  the  delighted  laughter  of  a  baby  sister. 
What  a  moment  was  that  in  which  the  racing  cat- 
tle headed  towards  a  steep,  overhanging  bank  of 
the  Platte !  It  was  the  climax  to  many  a  night- 
mare for  many  a  year  thereafter.  Bancroft  Library 

And  while,  through  this  misplaced  subject — 
"The  Buffalo  Herd" — I  go  backward,  as  it  were, 
on  our  journey,  I  might  refer  to  a  sketch  that  is 
partly  torn  away  from  the  book.  From  what 
remains  of  the  leaf  I  gather  that  the  drawing 
which  once  covered  it  when  entire,  was  "The 
Passing  of  the  Mail-Coach."  On  the  slopes  of 
Long  Bluff  there  lay  a  wreck.  It  was  the  skele- 
ton, as  one  might  call  it,  what  remained  of  a 
coach,  that  had  been  stopped  by  the  Sioux.  The 
leather  was  cut  from  its  sides,  by  the  Indians  who 
had  killed  the  driver  and  driven  away  the  horses; 
and  the  ribs  of  wood  and  iron  stuck  up  from  the 
sand  and  gravel  that  had  been  washed  around  it. 
But  this  one  in  the  sketch  was  not  a  coach  that 
told  of  a  tragedy,  but  one  that  went  speeding  by 
our  camp,  leaving  a  cloud  of  dust.  In  our  hearts 


72  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

were  regrets  that  we  could  not  speed  as  fast.  "The 
Man  on  the  Box"  was  important  in  his  day.  He 
was  an  autocrat  of  the  plains.  When  he  brought 
the  coach  to  its  destination,  that  was  if  he  hap- 
pened to  be  on  what  was  called  "the  last  drive," 
he  would  draw  on  his  tight-fitting,  high-heeled 
boots;  he  would  wear  his  richly-embroidered 
gloves;  he  would  be  the  hero  at  "the  Hall,"  the 
swell  at  "The  Dance." 

For  us  was  it  not  tantalizing  to  know  how 
quickly,  compared  with  our  slow  progress,  that 
coach  would  reach  "The  End?"  Somewhere, 
probably  ere  we  reached  the  mountains,  we 
would  meet  that  coach  returning.  The  Jehu 
who  drove  it  would  come  to  recognize  our  Com- 
pany as  he  passed  us  by.  The  guard  of  soldiers 
would  know  us,  and  he  and  they  would  pass,  re- 
pass  the  train  before  us,  and  also  the  one  that 
followed.  Yes,  we  followed  the  original  trail  of 
the  Pioneers  but,  of  course,  there  had  been 
changes.  The  Pony  Express  was  a  thing  of  the 
past,  and  soon  the  stage-coach  would  be.  But 
this  latter  change  was  not  yet.  There  were  m- 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  73 

mors,  too,  surveyors  had  been  seen  near  the  Mis- 
souri's banks.  Anon,  and  the  iron-steed  would 
course  the  plains;  it  would  find  a  path  through 
the  mighty  hills.  But  this,  too,  was  not  yet.  O, 
we  were  in  a  wilderness,  true!  No  need  for  us 
to  see  the  wreck  of  the  mail-coach,  the  burned 
station,  or  the  dead  Pony  Express,  arrow-slain, 
the  pouches  gone,  the  letters  that  would  be  so 
long  waited  for,  scattered  to  the  many  winds. 
No  need  of  this,  for  us  to  know  the  dangers  we 
had  passed,  or  to  make  us  rejoice  that  we  had 
arrived  in  safety  thus  far. 

Who  would  blame  us  for  our  times  of  merri- 
ment? Who  shall  wonder  at  the  time  of  rejoic- 
ing that  followed  on  our  arrival  at  Pacific  Creek? 
Of  whether  our  higgest  jubilation  was  at  Chim- 
ney Rock,  or  whether  it  was  there,  our  first  camp- 
ing place  on  the  Western  Slope,  I  fail  to  be  sure. 
But  this  I  know,  whether  it  were  at  the  one  or  at 
the  other,  the  facts  about  it  are  the  same. 
Blankets  were  stretched  between  two  wagons,  a 
sheet  was  hung,  there  was  a  shadow  pantomime, 
declamations  were  given,  songs  were  sung.  O,  it 


74  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

was  indeed  a  time  of  gaiety !  When  the  evening 
meal  was  over  and  the  call  of  the  sweet-toned 
clarinet  assembled  all  in  the  open  corral,  then 
what  times!  Men  and  women,  the  young,  and 
the  old  ones,  too,  danced  the  hours  away.  Who 
would  have  thought  there  had  been  such  a  hard 
day's  journey?  Forgotten  were  the  fatigues  that 
had  been;  and  those  that  were  to  come.  It  was 
such  hours  as  these  that  atoned  for  those  that 
had  been  wearisome,  for  those  that  were  sad. 

That  clarinet — what  an  important  part  it  held ! 
It  voiced  the  general  feeling  of  the  train.  Be  the 
company  sad  or  merry,  like  a  voice  it  spoke.  Mer- 
rily, on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri  it  sounded  at 
the  moment  of  starting,  mournfully  it  spoke  as 
each  one  who  fell  by  the  wayside  was  laid  to  his 
rest. 


ft».  ,yi   f  .jyy.  r 

I   I   I^Fttf  1*1   ^F-Nr    ' 


I  seem  to  hear  it  once  more  as  when  it  awoke 
us,  too,  for  the  last  start  near  the  Journey's  end. 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  75 

Its  remembered  strains  bring  back  the  scent  of 
prairie  flowers  and  the  mountain  sage. 

Here  is  the  "Ford  of  the  Green  River."  This 
reviewing  has  been  lengthy,  but  we  near  its  close. 
This  ford  of  the  river  is  not  where  the  railway 
crosses  it  at  the  present  time,  but  farther  up  the 
stream,  where  in  the  distance,  to  the  north-east, 
the  jagged  summit  of  the  Wind  River  Mountains 
were  again  in  view,  and  where  on  the  river  banks 
are  groups  of  cottonwood  trees  and  thickets  of 
wild  raspberry  and  rose,  and  the  air  is  aromatic 
with  the  exhalations  of  wild  thyme.  It  is  a  stir- 
ring scene,  for  the  water  was  both  deep  and  swift 
and  the  fording  not  accomplished  without  con- 
siderable labor  and  risk.  A  half-day's  rest  on 
the  banks  of  the  Green  River,  as  well  as  the  at- 
tractiveness of  the  place  itself,  makes  the  scene  of 
that  sketch  remembered  with  pleasure. 

Small  need  to  tell  how  expectancy  grew  upon 
us  as  the  number  of  miles  ahead  became  less  and 
less.  Even  those  who  had  at  last  apparently 
grown  apathetic  and  walked  silently  along,  or  sat 
questionless  in  the  wagons,  began  to  again  mani- 


76  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

fest  the  same  eager  interest  which  had  marked 
the  days  of  our  starting  out.  Wake  up!  wake 
up !  wake  up !  Fun  and  frolic  must  sometimes 
take  the  place  of  sentiment  and  sobriety,  and  so 
one  who  was  ever  brimming  over  with  both, 
could  not  wait  the  poetic  summons  of  the  clar- 
ionet. Beating  together  two  old  tin  pans  he 
frisked  around  the  corral,  rousing  with  the  un- 
seemly noise  all  laggards  and  slug-a-beds. 

"Cliffs  of  Echo  Canon."  This  brings  us  within 
the  borders  of  Utah.  We  had  climbed  from 
Green  River  to  Cache  Cave,  we  looked  upon  the 
one  range  of  hills,  the  one  only,  that  divided  us 
from  our  destination.  Clear  shone  the  Septem- 
ber sun,  as  our  long  train  moved  slowly  under  the 
conglomerate  cliffs;  slowly,  for  half  of  the  cattle 
were  footsore,  and  all  very  weary.  Several  hours 
were  consumed  in  passing  through  the  wild  de- 
file, and  night  was  falling  ere  the  mouth  of  the 
canon  was  reached.  Later,  as  the  camp-fires 
were  blazing,  the  full  moon  illuminated  the  fan- 
tastic scene. 

Who  of  all  those  who  traversed  Echo  Canon  in 


THE  PIONEER  TRAIL.  77 

an  ox-train  will  forget  the  shouting,  the  cracking 
of  whips,  the  wild  halloes,  and  the  pistol-shots 
that  resounded  along  the  line,  or  the  echoes,  all 
confused  by  the  multitude  of  sounds,  and  passing 
through  each  other  like  the  concentric  rings  on  a 
still  pond  when  we  throw  in  a  handful  of  pebbles, 
flying  from  cliff  to  cliff,  and  away  up  in  the  shag- 
gy ravine  and  seeming  to  come  back  at  last  from 
the  sky. 

"O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying ; 
Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying." 

No  wonder  the  place  recalls  Tennyson's  song, 
but,  it  must  be  told,  there  were  none  of  "the 
horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing"  about  the  wild 
hilarity  of  sounds  which  were  sent  back  from  the 
cliffs  that  day. 

The  last  sketch  in  the  book  is  "A  Glimpse  of 


78  THE  PIONEER  TRAIL. 

the  Valley."  Not  one  in  our  company  but  what 
felt  the  heart  swell  with  joy  as  the  sight  of  fields 
and  orchards,  in  the  latter  of  which  hung  ripened 
fruit,  burst  upon  our  sight.  Danger  and  fatigues 
were  all  forgotten.  The  stubborn,  interminable 
miles  were  conquered,  "The  Journey"  was  at  an 
end. 


